Dance With Me
by lovemeartless
Summary: It's France's birthday and he only wants one thing: For England to celebrate it with him. He might be hoping for a little too much… or will he get his wish? FrUK/Frathur/UKFr. (Warning: Rated M for some mild non-con later on. And of course, this is still yaoi/shounen-ai -kind of.)
1. The Invitation

**Some French Terms Used:** _chéris amis_ – beloved friends / _très mignon –_ very cute / _grand frère –_ big brother / _mon cher jeune maitre_ \- my dear young master (I know there're more French terms in there but I'm too lazy to weed through the chapters right now.) Also, all dialogue enclosed in **« dialogue »** means it is translated from spoken French.

 **Note:** This will be about 4-6 chapters (making it the longest Hetalia/FrUK I've ever attempted so far, even if the chapters will be short). As always, I feel my skills do not do my ideas justice (writing Hetalia is a BIG challenge for me!), so if I don't get all of the chapters up by Bastille Day (which is my target), I do apologize in advance.

 **Warnings:** There will be a sexual assault scene later on. I can't tell you much else, or it will ruin the plot. Just brace yourselves for the M-rating. X3

 **Disclaimer:** Please take the time to read the (lengthy) standard disclaimer on my profile page. It's for _all_ my Hetalia stories, so once you've read it you'll never have to read it again. Cheers!

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Story#163:

 **"Dance With Me"**

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I  
(In England)

 **~ The Invitation ~**

 **-x-**

Every year before Bastille Day, Arthur Kirkland gets the invitation.

That one day of the year where his capital is completely overridden by Frenchness: _French music, French liquor, and French festivals!_ That day of the year when blokes on this side of the Channel are given the perfect excuse to indulge the Francophile in them, by soaking up the Frenchness and gorging themselves on those sinfully delightful _macarons_ … That one day when England's heart is * _inevitably and inexorably overtaken by France._

And as if that wasn't enough… he always has to deal with _the invitation_.

This invitation wasn't just about watching the revelry on the other side of Dover… This invitation was "the" invitation. The one to a more exclusive and clandestine affair that coincided with that same day every year— a one grandiose ball held in some important chateau in France, to honour their human Nation's anniversary –or what we more commonly call a "birthday". Francis Bonnefoy's _exclusive_ birthday party.

But of course, France would have none of it calling his birthday celebration a "party". This was dubbed "the grandiose ball" for a reason. After all, not everyone gets to have their birthdays in real castles under crystal chandeliers with flowing champagne fountains, teeming buffets of the most mouth-watering delicacies, with only the _beau monde_ –the _crème de la crème–_ of aristocracy on your guest list. This was the kind of affair that peasants and commoners only dream of; read in fairy-tale storybooks (or in this case, fanfiction written by flighty-minded fan girls). And who wouldn't be thrilled out of their breeches to be invited to such a dreamy affair?

Well, apparently _our quaint little English gentleman_.

You see, though he does have an inner Francophile raging deep – _very deep_ – somewhere inside him, _Bastille Day or not_ — he does his best to repress his urges to "indulge" in it. _All the time._

Which brings us back to "the invitation".

The one he gets _every year_ , on the dot, first post in the morning. The celebrant insists on being melodramatic like that, even if it was the age of technology, and the more instantly gratifying option to call or text the Englishman was readily available, the Frenchman wouldn't dream of it.

 _"It will ruin ze mood!"_ he would say (-or rather, _bemoan_ ).

England was not required by his superiors to attend. Nor was he looking forward to bearing witness to a certain foppish, pompous, snail-eating frog named _Francis Bonnefoy_ flaunt himself to his zealous fawners _all night_. No, Arthur Kirkland had far more important things to do after all, so he always simply chose not to go, one of the few things he was at liberty to _not do_.

Arthur Kirkland doesn't even bother with opening the envelope anymore to read what's inside. It was always the same cryptic message addressed to ' _Monsieur Arthur Kirkland_ ', followed by a date, time and venue, and Francis' personally affixed signature at the lower corner in his usual swooping flamboyant handwriting with the ' _kiss-kiss-kiss_ ' flourish at the end. The ball was strictly " _by invitation only_ ", and his monogram served as an authentication of each individual invitation. (He used to put kiss marks in shocking red lipstick instead of the ' _xxx_ 's, but then he complained that kissing all those invitations made his lips so dry that he couldn't even move them anymore to actually kiss anyone come the actual ball –to which England groaned loudly at that point– so he stopped molesting the invitations since.)

England puts the envelope at the edge of his desk closest to his rubbish bin and prepares to type up his standard perfunctory reply via email –which he won't really 'type' but simply 'copy and paste' from his exact same message last year ( _and the year before that, and the year before that and so on…_ )– which contained a very formal and succinct apology in advance for his failure to make an appearance, pressing 'send' without even bothering to add his name.

Even if he had the more instantly gratifying (and somewhat _stressful_ ) option to call or text France, he wouldn't. He knew that receiving a reply to such an important personal matter via email would have the maximum effect of annoying the Frenchman. France always thought electronic messaging was the most unromantic thing ever invented. And there are your two good reasons England favoured this particular method of corresponding with the said Frenchman when he wanted to be most _unromantic_. He then turns his attention back to the lavishly decorated invitation envelope and ceremoniously gives it a nudge, which slips off the desk and swoops down woefully into the empty bin –a tiny ritual he's grown accustomed to relishing each year.

But something miraculous _and downright bizarre_ happens this year. He gives the envelope a _second glance_ (something he hasn't done in almost a decade) and decides to _scoop it back out_ _and open it_.

Whether he did out of curiosity or something else too grotesque to admit –like having a psychic connection with your sworn frienemy– England didn't know and didn't want to think about it. For now, let's just say that he had a ' _gut feeling_ ' that there was something different about the invitation this year. _And he was right._

Below the customary message, he was mildly piqued to find a handwritten postscript below: It went something like this in Arthur's mind as he read it:

 _'Bonjour mon cher jeune maitre! I chose a petit charmant château zis year in my Western part just for you. It 'as a gorgeous English garden and a moat with an "Enchanted Mirror"! Also, zhere will be special macarons l'anglais, zat I know you love widz your tea. Don't let zem go to waste, please come! I'll be wait'zing as always (so for goodness sake's don't keep me wait'zing)! Avec l'amour!_ (~horrid red-coloured blotch that looked horrifyingly like a kiss mark is here~) _Ton grand frère, Francis Bonnefoy xxx'_

England was unable to process for some minutes, absentmindedly staring at the note, he slips the card back into the envelope and into his desk drawer; vaguely wondering how long Francis had been adding personal notes to his invitation, or if this was, in fact, the first time he has done it. All the same, his heart was beating faster all of a sudden, and he clutched at his chest in a vain effort to calm the familiar mingled ache and panic that came with it.

He suddenly notices the pop-up message that had appeared on his laptop screen:

' _E-mail Sent! Too late to change your mind now!'_.

Therefore, as you probably so cleverly conjectured, our little Englishman was left in a bit of a quandary as to what to do. He had been adamant about not going, yes. But Francis' offer was very tempting. His raging inner Francophile had a soft spot for _romantic châteaus with moats and English gardens, macarons *l'anglais_ and numerous other things French ( _especially ones with shimmering blue eyes, gorgeous flaxen hair, a heart-breaking French smile, and a sexy French body with a sexy French accent to match_ ).

But of course, all that wasn't the reason he was having second thoughts! Oh no. Contrary to popular belief, the English Nation did have a conscience –and a very scrupulous one at that– and it did seem dreadfully rude to respond so indifferently after the pompous Frenchman had gone out of his way to bait him.

Still, he couldn't just take back what he said, could he? Having a conscience was one thing, but contending with his British pride was another. Besides, what would he say? ' _Hullo old chap, the message I sent previously was a mishap, please disregard it. Regarding your party, I shall do my best to make an appearance. Cheerio!_ '

No, that would be awkward.

Arthur shunned parties or gatherings of any sort. Nothing more than pretentious high-society charades where people parade themselves like proud peacocks gossiping about fashion and politics and other things he cared not for. America's loud and juvenile house parties were no different. A senseless congregation of youngsters getting wasted, making out, breaking things, and let's not forget: burping and farting. It didn't matter how 'grandiose' France's parties were. Every year Arthur would stick out like a sore English thumb in the midst of all his swaggering French guests. _Every year_ Arthur would find himself sitting alone in a corner and wishing he had never come. More than once he was nearly molested by some of Francis' ' _amis'_ , and he really wasn't looking forward to getting that kind of attention again. Ever. Francis knew this, and yet every year, Arthur finds the same innocent invitation at his doorstep. Perhaps this was all a ruse to publicly humiliate him; some elaborately-staged French conspiracy to antagonize him – _the human Nation of England_.

True, this year France had gone out of his way to make certain accommodations for him… Would the frog really go to lengths for the sake of making him miserable in the end? Or could this year really be different from all the others? Knowing him, he would never do England any favours without wanting anything in return. And judging by the strings he had to pull to get these extra perks all for his sake, it was safe to assume that the price would not come cheap.

And so our Englishman sat there confounded as to what course of action best to take— when an idea struck him. An idea that was both _brilliant_ and downright _bonkers_.

 _Brilliant_ because it would provide him the perfect opportunity to enjoy the best of both worlds while having something to laugh about in France's face later on. Annoying the French Nation was, after all _, his favourite past time,_ alongside drinking tea and knitting.

The bonkers part was, well… let's just say, it was too foolhardy and reckless.

He knew he was going to regret what he was about to do…

But the prospect of annoying the Frenchman _always_ made it worth the risk.

To risk it, or to risk it not...

 _That_ is the predicament.

 **End of Part I.  
** (Continued over **in France...** )

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 **Notes:**

 ** _*overtaken by France_** \- London celebrates Bastille Day! ZOMG. And I don't mean just acknowledging it or featuring it on BBC, they actually celebrate it, very festively too! SO MUCH CANON FRUK GOODNESS. It's also commemorated in Crostin, the Twin Town of Azay le Rideau in England.

 ***** ** _macarons l'anglais_** – They _do_ exist. A box of pink and red macarons l'anglais was a gift to Queen Elizabeth's jubilee.


	2. The Ball du l'Bastille

**Note:** I didn't make it for France's birthday! DX *mopes in a corner*

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II  
(In France)

 **~ The Ball du l'Bastille ~**

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The ***** _Château d'Azay-le-Rideau_ was one of Francis' favourites.

A French renaissance castle on an island in the middle of a sparkling moat surrounded by lush woodland. It wasn't like conventional ballrooms that were garish and stifling, this had a rustic elegance to it; airy and flavoured faintly of fresh cedar wood. On clear nights, it was a must to stroll along the English landscaped gardens where one would find a breath-taking view of the intricate stone façade and starry sky, reflected majestically upon its famed ***** _Enchanted Mirror._

Francis knew Arthur would have enjoyed it immensely.

That is- _if he were here_.

It's not as though he was disappointed or anything. Or rather, he couldn't afford to be, now of all days he didn't have that luxury. It didn't matter if this was supposed to be _his_ birthday anniversary. He was loved, as always, yes. But it was _never_ really about him. As a Nation these gatherings were obligatory; not as much a social gathering as it was a symbolic ritual to flaunt their country's flashy feathers. _Merde._ _Humans and their never-ending obsession with superficialities._ It still never ceased to amaze him. Though he normally took pleasure in it, he wasn't always in the mood to show-off. Especially since the only one he ever enjoyed showing off to was not even here!

He sighed gloomily, doing his best to obviate the weight beginning to accrue in his chest. He truly _felt_ that he was going to win over the English Nation this year; he could almost breathe in Arthur's presence!

But sadly, like all the previous years of half the decade, he was turned down flat.

 _He probably didn't even bozther opening ze envelope. Stupide Anglais… Maybe I should 'ave texted him…_

The French Nation sighed for the umpteenth time that night, leaning against the ledge of one of the open windows; the night's calm breeze caressed his face sympathetically. He had already welcomed his guests, thanked them and entertained them; _danced, chatted and laughed_ with them whenever called for. He prided himself a good host; and as expected everyone was having a wonderful time… _everyone except him_.

You know how sometimes you can't help feeling extra sentimental on your birthday? Well yes, even Nations get those silly human blues; and that's what France was feeling. Dejected would be the word for it; so dejected in fact- that even the excellent wine and usual flirting could not lift his spirits. He could not cheat himself of his feelings as well as he used to when time was at its infancy. Francis longed to be with someone who knew what this day really meant to him; that someone who truly knew him- one whom he needn't put up a shiny-sparkly front for. And no prizes for you if you guessed he was missing Arthur. The Englishman's rejection had hit him hard. Perhaps he was only fooling himself in thinking that they were true friends despite their countries always being at convoluted odds and ends. Was it really so much to ask of England to take a night off from his splendid isolation to indulge him on this one special day that only happened once a year?

 _"I guess it was…"_ France muttered, helping himself to his sixth glass of wine. The night was still young and he was already feeling a bit tipsy and tired. He indolently shifts his gaze back to the lively and colourful assemblage…

This year they decided to have a masquerade.

All wore masks, layers of rouge, and extravagant ensembles; it was all very pretty. Yet none of them made any real effort to conceal who they were. Ah, _human vanity!_ What an eerily laughable thing it was! From where France was standing, they all looked the same; _All of them._ Both men and women alike; _A sea of strangers and potential lovers_. They adore him, swoon over him, and more than willingly grovel at his feet. They genuinely can't help it.

Soon all the fancy dresses transform into a flurry of colourful smudges swirling on the dance floor, and he lets out a drawn-out yawn.

" _All the same._ " Francis inwardly scoffs. The boredom and booze already seeping into his senses…

Just when he was about to completely surrender to his dreary plight and chuck all hopes of a miracle out into the night- _amid the dancing blotches of colours a girl looking strangely out of place materialized_ ; All brazen faery-winged and superbly un-French with her unruly boyish-cut just-short-of-strawberry-blond and overly long fringe that cascaded in a glorious chaos down her forehead, throwing tantalizing shadows over her long lashes.

 _She must be a sun faery…_ mused France; slowly being extracted from his lethargic puddle.

Her stark simple sunshine gold dress that dropped loosely to an inch above her knees with flowing _Juliette_ sleeves and a wand to match told him as much. Though modestly tall and shapely, her dress was apparently a size too big because her décolletage kept sliding off one shoulder, consequently causing the corresponding end of her sleeves to slipshodly fall past her knuckles. Owing to this, she kept tempestuously pulling it back up, trying in vain to keep her frilled cuffs above her elbow. She wasn't wearing a mask, but her face seemed to shimmer. And upon closer scrutiny, France saw that her cheeks and nose were littered with multi-coloured glitters, and so was the chrome scarlet barrette she wore on one side (that did nothing whatsoever) to keep her rebellious fringe in check. Every now and then she would teeter precariously on her two-inch glass platform slippers, unintentionally and irresponsibly flailing her wand each time in the process of keeping her balance; _putting the other guests in peril of being turned into a toad or breaking out in warts in odd places_ , France feared with an amused chuckle.

Despite the haphazard appearance and ungainliness about her, France couldn't help thinking how remarkably beautiful she was in an innocently sexy and untamed sort of way. If there was any surer indication that she didn't swing with this crowd, it was the fact that she was the only one in the entire room who wore nothing on her face except glitters and bubble-gum lip-gloss (and he wouldn't dream of contesting the fact that she didn't seem to need any more make-up than that at all)…

Now he was even more certain that if he had known who she was -which was the case with all of his guests- it was virtually impossible for him to forget her. But she didn't ring any of his well-oiled memory bells. In fact- as she recklessly albeit nimbly darted between chatting couples, ducked passing waiters, and manoeuvred her way around; excitedly examining the food, and eating and drinking; all but tripping and pulling and smiling to herself like a coltish child- the more he was convinced of three things:

 _That she wasn't French. That he truly did not know who she was, and… That he was not going to let this night end without rectifying that last bit._

She continued to be oblivious to everyone else, so intent on perusing the tricolour-draped buffet tables, sampling dishes and making the most ridiculously cute facial expressions as she masticated. _Francis could have sworn it was a face that reminded him of someone, but he couldn't quite place it yet…_ Then he chuckled out loud as she picked up a long-stemmed wine glass from one of the passing waiters, downed its contents in one swig, and quickly grabbed another before the waiter got away.

Okay, that was— _unexpected._

France had been stalking her from across the room, staying out of sight but keeping a clear view. When she had finished sampling food from all the tables, she seemed to look disappointed, like she was expecting something. Then to Francis' surprise, she scoots over to a small circular table isolated from the main buffet. On it was a platter, its contents still concealed under a silver cloche. She hovers there for a few minutes; sniffs once, twice, and her face lights up instantly; bright green eyes wide with excitement.

 _Wait a minute…_ Francis thinks _, that is…_

The plate is uncovered to reveal a happy pile of _colourfully assorted mini-scones._

She carefully and ceremoniously picks up a first scone, bites into it and chews very slowly. Her eyes close sensually; the smile on her lips dazzling. Then when she had swallowed it all, she inhales and exhales deeply as if savouring the sweetness in her mouth; before she pops another into her mouth, and another, and another… Her cheeks flushing brightly now from sheer delight.

 _Of course, they taste magnifique!_ France thought proudly, _I made those scones myself specially for…_

 _Non…_

Realization floods Francis' senses, and his heart suddenly comes to life, bringing an unbridled smile to his lips.

 _It couldn't be! He must be dreaming…_

Either that, or he was already more intoxicated than he thought. _Was his mind so bored and desperate to see Arthur that it was willing to be so easily duped into believing that the proud Englishman would disguise himself as a woman just to taste his scones?_

No longer unable to contain his curiosity, he creeps closer until he stood directly behind her, making sure he was unnoticed until the very last minute before clearing his throat discreetly.

"Do you like it?"

The sun faery girl turned abruptly, evidently not expecting anyone to pay any attention to her; much less speak to her in English. The smile on the French Nation's face broadened as the girl's eyes grew rounder with what he took as recognition. She was shocked, that much was obvious, and she tried to say something that unfortunately turned into a fit of choking and coughing. Suavely, France grabs a glass of water from a passing waiter and passes it to her which she gratefully accepts and gulps down.

"Fra-! I-I mean, Monsieur Bonnefoy!" she gasps when she had recovered. Her voice was velvety and had a low-key register, almost purring even if she was somewhat high-strung; and combined with the perfect English accent and all, Francis couldn't help but be charmed even more. He laughed out loud as a tidal wave of excitement washed over and settled in gut; his heart –for the first time that night- doing familiar loops and somersaults.

" _Oh non, s'il vous plait_ ," France gave a low perfectly princely bow. "Call me Francis." Then taking her hand, he swept aside the frilly fabric from her knuckles to plant a sensuous kiss there; looking up just in time to catch the blush intensify on her rosy cheeks. "I don't think I could ever forgive myself for forget'zing ze name of such an enchanting _petite belle_. If you would do me ze great kindness of telling me your name again, I would be deeply 'umbled, _Mademoiselle_ —?"

She opens her mouth but no words come out except a hoarse, 'A-Ahhh…'

"Al'zough it iz a harsh punishment to be deprived of your name, it iz also perfectly understandable that you deem me unworthy. As I've said, a deplorable misgiving it iz on my part, to forget ze name of one as beautiful as you." Standing to full height he gives her his best smile and extends his hand. "I hope that before ze night is over, you would be able to forgive me and tell me your name. But for now, you must, at ze very least, grant me ze pleasure of one dance."

When she merely gawked at his outstretched hand, he assumed it was a 'yes'; so he scooped up her hands and guided her to the dance floor.

He got as far as putting his hand on her waist (which made her jump a bit), placing her hand on his shoulder and locking their remaining free hands together -and had even already begun to sway to the slow, romantic tempo of the orchestra in the background- when she suddenly broke free and stepped back.

"I- I'm sorry, but…" she fidgeted uneasily, before looking up at him. "My throat feels a bit dry…"

Francis somehow knew that getting her on the dance floor had been too easy to be true. Being the gentlemanly host that he was, he offers to get her refreshments of course; but not before leading her to one of the open balconies where she could comfortably wait. All the while, there was a growing feeling inside him that kept nagging him not to let her out of his sight. So when he returned with a glass of water and a plate of mini-scones to find the balcony one pretty little sun faery short, he couldn't say he was surprised more than he was crestfallen.

This confirmed his theory so far. No woman (or man) in their right mind would run away from the lavishment of the personification of the Nation of Love himself. Except if that someone…

 _Was England._

 **End of Part I.  
** (Continued over **in The Chunnel...** )

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 **Notes:**

 ** _*Château d'Azay-le-Rideau_** \- I have never been to France (heartache) so naturally I've never been to this castle. But I've seen and read about this wondrous place from British travel guides, hehe. And so, much had to be left to my imagination.

 ** _*Enchanted Mirror_** – The castle's moat that reflected the sky perfectly like a mirror.

RL has been derailing me from my stories! Can't say when I will post the rest, but rest assured I just will. To the kind readers who have left this story some love, thank you ever so much! 8D


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